Broken Man
by motley-atypical
Summary: When his twin died during the Battle Of Hogwarts, George Weasley lost the ability to produce a patronus.


**This _did _start off as an extension of a head-canon I wrote on tumblr, regarding how George coped after Fred's death during the Battle Of Hogwarts. While I was writing it, I had no idea that it would embellish to this extent. 1883 words later, here it is. A fully fledged one-shot.**

**I'm not sure how accurate I am with the Weasly twins' respective patronuses, or even how George and Angelina ended up married in the first place, or who the best man would have been. I just wrote this to express my dismay that people believed that George would spend the rest of his life in this pit of misery because Fred died. I mean, give the man some credit, he had 5 siblings (6 until the battle, sad times), I think he would have learned the value of protecting his family when he had one of his own and not put them behind his own selfish mourning. Ok, I'm clearly about to go off in a rant so I'll just let this speak for itself.**

**I don't any of the characters, they are the intellectual property of Her royal highness, our Queen, Joanne Rowling. The title belongs to Boys Like Girls.**

When his twin died during the battle of Hogwarts, George Weasley lost the ability to produce a patronus.

No, it was much more than that. He had lost half of himself. Fred was more than just a brother, more than just a twin. He was his best friend, the one person that he could trust with anything. He didn't think there was anyone who would ever understand him just as much. They were perfectly synchronised down to the last quirk and freckle. From the moment he walked into that Great Hall that dreadful night, to see his brother's body lying there – face peaceful almost as if he could be sleeping, lips turned upwards in an almost-smile - it felt as if his soul had been torn in half. Nothing could have prepared him for the anguish, and for the longest time he wondered what kind of animal You-Know-Who could have been to have choose to tear apart his soul not once, but seven times.

He didn't cope after the battle. He could see that his family were still mourning, they could never fill the void that was left. However, they were moving on from it. His parents had learned not to notice that there were nine hands on the family clock, his brothers and sister were starting families with their respective partners – all apart from Charlie, who just threw himself into his work. They tried, God, did they try, but George was beyond anybody's help. It was more than not being able to cope, he didn't _want _help. So many questions ran through his mind, the most frequent of them being; why did he allow himself to be seperated from Fred during the battle? They were weaker when they were apart, they were the only times they had ever been truly injured. George had escaped with a severed ear as the worst of it. How was it fair that Fred be the one to die? Anguish made way for guilt, which made way for resenment. Why was George left alive?

Losing the ability to produce a patronus was just the physical representation of losing his ability to feel true happiness.

He crudely replaced this void with Firewhiskey which he drank from a hipflask whenever he thought that no-one was looking.

It was Ron – now that _was _laughable – Ron Weasley of all people, his daft little brother, who had managed to snap him out of it. It was almost a year after the battle when George was pretending to cope for the sake of those around him. Ron

had seen through the transparent act and, after cornering him in the storeroom of _Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, _had given him a very hard shake – both literally and metaphorically. His words still echoed in George's mind;

"_Listen, mate," _he had said, _"I know you're hurting. We all know what Fred meant to you but it's been almost a year now, and you have to stop letting it destroy your life. Think of all the other people who lost family. Hell, think of everything that _Harry _lost but you don't see him drinking himself to death. Do you think Fred would have wanted this? You may have known him better than me, mate, but you _know _he'd kick your arse if he saw you like this. He wouldn't even bother using his wand." _

That night George had had the strangest but most vivid dream that he could ever remember having, and it acted as a welcome break from nightmares. In this dream, he was standing in a dark chamber, staring into a magnificent mirror that he had never seen before but vaguely recognised from the stories that Harry told them of how he acquired the Philosopher's Stone. The words "Eried stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi" were carved at the top of the intricate frame. He could tell right away that the tall red head staring back at him wasn't his own reflection; there was no mistaking the gleam in his eye, or the easy smile. Ron's words must have stirred something in George's mind because he realised that he was staring at no-one else but his twin brother.

"_Alright Georgie," _Fred had grinned, _"I hate to say it but Won-Won was right." _

Though he woke up the next morning with a hangover, he felt like he had been given a new lease of life. The visit from Fred acted as the closure that George had needed, it had finally given him the chance to say the goodbye that had been stolen from him when Rockwood uttered the curse that killed his brother. George threw himself into trying to start rebuilding the shattered pieces of his life. He would never stop missing Fred, that was only natural, but he would take Ron's advice and stop using it as an excuse to destroy himself. Fred had said some very choice words at the end of George's dream, just as he was feeling himself begin to wake up. Though he couldn't remember the exact phrase, it was something along the lines of "if you don't wake up and get married, have babies, and live happily ever after, I swear I will kick your arse all over the afterlife when you die."

When he started seeing Angelina, his smiles became warmer and more genuine. She had always sent him letters saying that if he ever wanted to talk – it didn't even have to be about Fred's death - she would be there to lend an ear. Out of everyone who had offered, her letters were the ones that the one that had struck a chord. Perhaps it was because she seemed to be the only one that didn't pretend to understand what he was going through. Their relationship had been met with some raised eyebrows; George Weasley was seeing his dead brother's ex-girlfriend, but the whispers

of those few doubters fell on deaf ears. She understood him, and they loved each other. He could imagine what Fred would have said; _"you have taste, atleast."_

Mostly though, people were just happy to see George Weasley laugh again.

Despite everything, despite the fact that finally he was content with his life, he still lacked the ability to produce a patronus. He conjured up every happy memory he had. However, the strongest of these memories that would have yielded the strongest results, all involved Fred. Whenever he thought of his brother, his wand would falter, his mind would return to that instant during the battle of Hogwarts when – from a moment of triumph at a perfectly placed body-bind hex to a Death-Eater – he had been filled with a sudden, chilling sense of foreboding. A feeling that stayed with him until he had entered the Great Hall...and the charm that he had tried to create would die.

It had become something of an obsession. A patronus was bourne of pure joy, a beautiful memory that acted as a shield. If George was going to have the happy ending that he wanted, he was going to be able to remember how it felt to be truly happy. For the sake of his family, his friends, and most importantly, the woman he was to marry.

Even after his wedding, it was still beyond his reach.

He had left his wife asleep on the marriage bed and had stood in the centre of their darkened living room. He thought of his wedding. He thought about his new wife. Angelina Johnson had always beautiful, but that day she had looked particularly stunning. The white of her dress had provided a breathtaking contrast to her dark skin, her ebony hair framed her face to accentuate her full lips, where there had been a smile of nothing but unconditional love for the damaged man standing before her...but the memory was tainted. Of course it was tainted. When he had looked at his best man, it hadn't been Fred, it had been Lee Jordan. It wasn't the way it should have been. His brother should have been there...

"_Expecto patronum," _he whispered, but not even a faint mist was produced.

He waited for years, without any success, before something truly wonderful happened.

"Meet your son," Angelina had said, as she passed George what appeared just to be a bundle of blankets. The feeling that overtook George as he held his baby for the first time was overwhelming. Life. He had produced life. However, there was more to it than that. George had seen enough photos of himself and Fred as babies to notice the remarkable resemblance between them and the child in his arms. It was like a second chance and it seemed only right to name the child Fred. A little voice seemed to say in the back of his head,

"_Are you going to live happily ever after now?" _

That night, George had found himself standing in the centre of the same living room that he had stood in so many times before in failed attempts to produce a patronus. However, for the very first time there was a quiet certainty deep in his heart that this time he finally had the perfect memory, one which wasn't haunted by the dead and thoughts on what should have been.

As he stood in the centre of the darkened room, his wand held aloft, he let a new memory consume him. This was one that was ultimately more powerful than those of his time at Hogwarts, and one that he would never let another living being - be that a Death-Eater or some other dark wizard, could take from him as long as he was still breathing. He thought about the face of his child, the mass of red hair, the way he felt to see that little boy in his wife's arm, that same little boy whom he would tell stories of his uncle, his namesake, who died so that he could live in a world that was safe.

"_Expecto Patronum!" _he cried. A warmth spread through his fingers as silvery light burst from the end of his wand, so powerful it almost sent him reeling. He had to shield his eyes from the brilliance of the light, but when his eyes became adjusted, he almost thought he was imagining things. He blinked several times but the appiration in front of him didn't fade away. He had done it. After all this time, he had produced his first patronus. The form wasn't the same as it had been; it was a hyena, not a coyote. He vaguely remembered how Tonks' - rest her soul - patronus had changed while she was pining for Lupin. George didn't mind this new form. As he watched the hyena bound happily around the room, he was filled with a comfort he had long since forgotten. It was like his brother was sending him messages from the next life that he was still very much here, if not in a physical form. As the animal came to a halt in front of him, George couldn't help a gleeful laugh from escaping his lips.

"I did it, Freddie," he grinned, "I finally did it."

**The End**


End file.
